


Spring of Rebirth

by Echo (Lyrecho)



Series: Proof of Life [1]
Category: Servamp (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fateswap, Gen, The Sister Lives!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrecho/pseuds/Echo
Summary: The moment she walks through the apartment door, her heart stops.The doors to the balcony are wide open – the cheap curtains blowing in the barely there wind. The only illumination is the moonlight; not a single light turned on in the entire apartment.That isn’t what chills her to the bone, though – Sakuya stands on the balcony, his back to the open doors, and their father beside him.A different child is chosen as a sacrifice.A different outcome is born of blood and melancholy.|Tumblr||Twitter|





	Spring of Rebirth

The moment she walks through the apartment door, her heart stops.

The doors to the balcony are wide open – the cheap curtains blowing in the barely there wind. The only illumination is the moonlight; not a single light turned on in the entire apartment.

That isn’t what chills her to the bone, though – Sakuya stands on the balcony, his back to the open doors, and their father beside him.

She swallows around the lump that’s grown in her throat, mouth suddenly dry. She doesn’t move from where she stands, still in the doorway with her hand on the doorknob; she doesn’t think her father has noticed that she’s back yet.

And now, she just feels a sick, creeping sense of dread, because she _knows_ why they made her leave the apartment (out of milk? Since when had that ever mattered, let alone at such a late hour?) – because if she had been there, she would never have let them do this.

She’d thought it strange, the lack of beatings – of punishments – that had occurred over the past week. She’d watched as bruises she’d had for as long as she could remember finally healed and left clear skin in their place, and marvelled as the same happened to Sakuya. The two of them had still been cautious, of course – but she’d dared to hope, however slightly, that maybe things were, if not looking up, then plateauing on a decidedly neutral equilibrium.

But – looking at the scene before her, drenched in cold moonlight and framed with the movement of stiff, cheap cotton, she knows that her hopes – as always – were for naught.

Because she _knows_ what it is they’re doing, what it is they’ve been planning. The damning evidence she’d been too wilfully blind to all falls together in her mind; a crystal sharp spire of logic that pierces through her, leaving her breathless and running purely on adrenalin.

Her parents weren’t what she’d call _smart_ , but they weren’t exactly idiots, either. If one of their children were to die under mysterious circumstances, their corpse covered in bruises and the surviving sibling with flesh just as marred – well. No one would be able to deny that it was suspicious. But if both children appeared to be happy, healthy and whole?

A suicide. An accident. A tragedy. A terrible, horrific waste of a young life.

There were a million reasons, a million excuses. Any one of them could be used, and believed, the truth written off by officials not wanting to bother a grieving family with an in-depth investigation. The Watanuki family was filled with skilled actors, after all – lying to the police was probably something her parents had been doing for years.

She was frozen, standing by the door – and then she wasn’t, lunging for the balcony. “What are you doing?” She yells out, making her voice deliberately loud. She’d more than learnt over the years to keep quiet if she wanted to keep herself from pain – but for the sake of her little brother, when his life was at risk – she’d scream the heavens down, if it meant even the slightest chance that someone would hear, and call for help.

Sakuya flinches, her words startling him, and their father’s hand clamps down on his shoulder – his grip just a little too close to the neck to be called anything but a vice. There’s fear shining in his eyes as he looks up at her, but also a deep trust, and it’s that which stops her cold. The hand holding her brother down is an implicit threat – make one wrong move and that would be it.

She smiles, or tries to – a false reassurance while her mind runs around in circles, panicking. She doesn’t dare call out again, can only hope that somebody heard her first shout and the genuine terror within it. She’s not sure it works (Sakuya doesn’t look any less scared) but her father’s grip relaxes, if slightly; to him, her smile – her lie – is a sign of surrender, submission. Just business as usual.

She grits her teeth, but keeps the smile up as best she can. It’s a mask, sure, a lie – but it’s a mask that _works_ , at least for now. If she can just keep it fixed on her face, maybe her own lie will fool her too – a false sense of security cloaked in a bravado she desperately needs if she’s going to save Sakuya.

“What are you doing?” She repeats, and her father’s eyes narrow. Sakuya winces as the grip on his shoulder tightens once again.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he says. “Get inside.”

She feels her own eyes narrow, and from the pinched, displeased look that crosses her father’s face she knows she’s glaring. “No,” she says, and takes a step forward. “I don’t think I will.”

He looks briefly surprised – whether at the mere existence of this small show of defiance or at the way she's reaching out to pull Sakuya from him she doesn’t know – but then that look fades, into something resembling triumph, and she feels a chill shoot down her spine that has nothing to do with the night air that surrounds her. Sakuya’s eyes widen, his gaze flicking to just above her shoulder, and there’s a terror in his face that cuts like a knife.

And then she has a more tangible blade to worry about, the keen edge pressed to her throat, the steel cold where the arms that locks around her middle is hot, and she curses for forgetting about her mother – she’d been so concerned with her father and Sakuya, alone on the balcony, that she hadn’t even paid the other threat in the apartment a moment of thought.

Her first instinct is to panic – there’s a knife at her throat and a hand clenched in her hair, pulling it back to bare her neck, of _course_ that’s where her mind jumps to – but Sakuya is standing before her, small and just as trapped, just as scared, and _she_ is the big sister. She can’t let anything happen to him – she’ll die before she does.

So, as much as she can, she ignores the blade pressed at her throat – sharp and serrated, a steak knife, she thinks – and swallows, even as she feels the teeth of it press into her flesh with the movement.

“Let him _go_ ,” she repeats. Her voice breaks on the last word, and she bites her lip until it bleeds in an effort to keep the hysterical tears she can feel building up from falling. There’s a desperation that’s almost inhuman growing in her as she pleads, and she knows her parents can hear it, too. Sakuya’s staring at her, pale with shock, like he’s never seen her lose her cool like this before. He probably hasn’t – she’s always managed to keep a smile up for him. “You don’t need to do this to him – you’ve got _me_.” She’s babbling, barely paying attention to the string of frantic words leaving her mouth, but she knows she means each and every one entirely.

Sakuya’s breath catches audibly, and he trembles as he stares up at her.

There’s a consideration in her father’s gaze as he stares at her, and for a minute she dares to hope that he’s going to listen to her – it’ll still be awful, and she’s sorry, so sorry, that she’ll be leaving Sakuya alone through this – but if it means her little brother will live, then she’s fine with paying any price, even her own life.

But then the grip around her tightens, and the knife digs in a little harder – a more explicit threat, not meant for her, who has been conscious of the sharp edge pressed against her this entire time, but for Sakuya, who starts crying when blood wells up from the faint cut. It’s barely broken skin – but her skin is pale and the moonlight is bright; the dark red is unmissable.

“I have a better idea,” her mother says, and she sounds tired – but more than anything, _annoyed_. She tenses up, as stupid as that is to do while literally held at knifepoint. “Sakuya – jump off that balcony now, or I’ll slit her throat.”

Her mind blanks. Only for a second, sure – but her mind goes pure white and static, a haze taking over conscious thought. When she comes back to herself, it’s to the horrifying sight of her little brother sitting on the balcony’s railing, both legs slung over the edge to rest on the side that would lead to a very final landing.

She automatically strains to reach him – to pull him from that edge and into her arms – but her father’s grip is on her now, holding her steadfast in place, and the knife still held at her throat is unwavering. As she struggles, it cuts her, and some visceral animal instinct freezes her still even as she screams internally for her body to move.

She knows, logically, that her mother’s threat is mostly empty. If they were going to kill her – which is nowhere near beyond them, the idea of the monsters that call themselves her parents caring about the lives of their children is laughable, in a bitter, twisted way – they wouldn’t do something as obvious as slit her throat. Her wrists, maybe, or knock her unconscious in the bath. Hell, they might even throw _her_ off of the balcony, just for the thematics. Something as easy to pin as a murder instead of an accident or suicide isn’t something they’d go for – they’d never risk it.

But even if she knows that, she can see that Sakuya’s panicked mind hasn’t connected the dots.

There’s determination in her baby brother’s eyes, and it almost clouds out the fear. He loves her, of course, probably more than he loves anyone else – even himself. He’s just as willing to die for her as she is for him, and she _hates_ it, because this _isn’t how it was supposed to be_.

“Please,” she says, or thinks, or screams – she isn’t sure. “ _Please_ ,” she says, and isn’t sure who she’s talking to – anyone, anything, that can save her brother. She’s never believed in god, or angels, or even the devil himself, but if they were out there – if some higher power or just a listening ear was nearby – then they had to save her brother. They had to save Sakuya.

 _Save Sakuya_.

It’s been her mantra, ever since she was handed an infant as a child and was told it was her brother – her responsibility. She’d called him Sakuya before her parents ever had a chance to think of a name, not that they’d cared. He’d been hers for his entire life – and the one bright spot in hers. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t _watch_ him die here, right in front of her, and know that he was doing it because of their parents – because of _her_.

Like those words were the key, an instinct even stronger than the basic survival one kicks in. Self-preservation means nothing if the end result is living in a world without her little brother.

 _Save Sakuya_.

She kicks out, and is rewarded with an _oof_ from her father when the hit impacts with his shin – there’s pain audible even in that brief exhale, and she’s glad for it. “Let me _go_ ,” she snarls, twisting in her parent’s grip, paying no mind to how they only hold her tighter, skin burning from the friction; her biggest concern is her brother, and not even the knife she’s almost forgotten about in her desperate rage is enough to deter her from fighting them off – or at least trying.

“Stop!” Sakuya’s voice is hoarse, panicked, but she can barely hear it over the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears – “Sis! _Stop!_ ”

She doesn’t. She isn’t _going to_ , not so long as Sakuya is in danger.

And then all she sees is white – a hazy white, tinged with dancing red as her head spins, a ringing buzzing in her ears.

 _Oh_ , she realises, and tastes blood thick on her tongue. Her father had just punched her.

Sakuya _screams_ , and she can barely find the energy to lift her head from where she’s slumped, dazed. “ _Leave her alone!_ I’m doing it, okay! _I’m doing it!_ ”

“Then do it faster,” their mother snaps, and readjusts her grip on the knife. The way she’s angling it right now, the moon makes the steel glow silver under its light. “You idiots have been screaming enough that someone could call the cops any minute. No more stalling, no more wasting time – _jump_ , Sakuya.”

Sakuya swallows, staring at the knife. His gaze flicks up to meet hers, and she tries to communicate _please don’t_ as hard as she can.

He gets the message, she’s sure of it. But apparently he takes the wrong meaning out of it, because determination is what shines back at her out of those eyes – and _not_ the kind she wants.

She shakes her head, a negation, a denial, and he smiles.

It isn’t a nice smile, and she chokes back a sob as tears run down his face.

“Goodbye,” he says, and lets go of the railing.

She screams.

She’s struggling against her parents, even harder than before, as if throwing herself after her brother will somehow make a difference to what she knows has already happened. She’s sobbing, and wailing, and there’s not a single coherent thought in her mind as she kicks and scratches and punches as they try to drag her back inside – probably so they can call the cops and act the part of grieving parents. How she is right now might actually help corroborate their story of a child committing suicide – a sister gone hysterical over the loss of her younger brother – but she just can’t help it. She can’t _stop_ , because Sakuya is _gone_ and _nothing matters_.

Her parents will kill her if she tries to speak out, she knows. She just doesn’t care.

“ _Fuck_ ,” her father snarls, as she twists just enough to knee him in the groin. “Goddammit – shut her up, would you?”

Her mother’s response is a single hiss, and on her other side, nails dig painfully into her arm. “How, exactly, do you want me to do that?”

Her parents are distracted – while they snipe at each other, the hold they each have on her loosens. Not enough that she could just walk out of their grip – but enough that, with a sudden and strong enough movement, she could rip away.

An opportunity, she thinks, and breathes deep.

She lunges, going for the door. Her parents will be right behind her, on her heels – but if she moves fast enough, she’ll get outside before they do, or can. She’ll reach Sakuya first – and then a payphone, or a neighbour, or _something_ so she can get her parents punished for what they’ve done. The slight cuts (still bleeding) on her neck are proof enough that they struggled, alongside her damaged clothing. They’ll have to believe her, no matter how good her parent’s story. They’ll _have to_.

Her mother gasps as she tears her way out of her grip – the knife cuts her as she yanks away, she can feel the burn of the steel as it rip at her flesh, but it doesn’t feel that much deeper than the rest of the cuts littering her neck already – she can deal, she’ll live.

She dodges around her father, even as her head is pounding, swimming – though from the punch or her own adrenalin and grief stricken panic she isn’t sure – and her hand is on the doorknob, twisting it open just as a sharp pain stabs through her.

She breathes, and tastes blood.

“Oh, Christ,” her father swears. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing, idiot?”

She sways, and lets go of the door as her legs threaten to collapse beneath her. Her parent’s voices above her are panicked as she sinks to her knees, and she knows exactly why.

There’s a knife sticking into her side.

Her mother must have jumped after her and grabbed her with the knife still in hand – it’s the only think that makes sense in her hazy mind, and it’s with no fear that she stares down at the wound in her stomach. She’s in shock, probably, but she doesn’t think she’d care much even if she wasn’t – not when Sakuya is already dead.

She sobs, and is only thankful that her baby brother won’t be alone for long – she can’t even muster up the vindictive pleasure some part of her says she should feel at the idea that her parents won’t be able to get out of paying for her death, at least.

“Get her up,” her father says, from somewhere far away. “And get that knife out of her. If we toss her over the edge, maybe the impact will hide what happened here.”

Her mother snorts, but does as her father says – she’s sure she can feel her hand shaking as she yanks the knife out, nowhere near gentle. The pain is sharp, and then she’s numb, even number than before – she thinks she can feel warmth spreading from her side, but she feels cold, too, trembling in her limbs, so she isn’t sure what’s real or not.

“Here, help me,” her mother says. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

The floor creaks as her father steps forward – and then she must black out for a second once he’s picked her up, because the next thing she knows, they’re on the balcony, and she’s blinking her way back into a hazy awareness.

“Hurry it up,” her mother snaps. “If we don’t hurry someone will call the cops before we can, and we _still_ need to clean up the blood now.”

“And whose fault is that?” Her father grunts. A steel beam is cold beneath her legs, and she notes that he’s placed most of her weight on the railing of the balcony.

Ah, she thinks. Sakuya is right below her. She’ll be with him soon.

Her head lolls against her father’s shoulder, and she squints as she lets her gaze travel downward.

And then her heart skips a bit, because Sakuya isn’t there.

She blinks, and wonders how badly the blood loss has gotten to her – but no, her baby brother’s corpse still doesn’t appear; not so much as even a splatter of blood to mark the place where he’d fallen.

Her brain stalls. _It doesn’t make sense_.

“Well,” an unfamiliar voice says, low and amused, “I’d imagine that would be _your fault_ , now wouldn’t it?”

Her father starts, and she feels the cold emptiness of the night air beneath her. The entire world feels a dream around her, and she’s very conscious of the fact that the only thing keeping her from falling to her death is the grip her father still holds tight on her – likely out of pure instinct rather than anything else.

“What? Who are you?” Her father snaps, and then his arms are gone from around her.

She blinks, and suddenly solid ground is beneath her again. A flash of pale skin, and traditional clothing she’d never seen worn outside of festivals, and then she’s laying on the ground.

“Well,” says that same voice, with less amusement than before – there was something vindictive in the earlier words that had been spoken, but now there was just a quiet grief there. Something sombre, something she wasn’t sure she was meant to hear. “This _is_ a mess, isn’t it?”

She can’t answer. The heat that had been spreading from her side has faded, and now she’s just cold everywhere. She shivers, and closes her eyes.

She doesn’t expect to open them again.

So, when she does, she’s surprised, to say the least.

She breathes deep, a reflexive intake of air, and realises that it doesn’t hurt – there’s no burning in her side, no cold travelling through her limbs and reaching to her heart. The taste of blood is still strong in her mouth, though, and her vision is clear – clearer than it should be at night, even with the moon as bright as it is; clear enough that she can see almost perfectly the smile of the man that stands above her.

“Welcome back,” he says, and his smile is filled with melancholy. She has a million questions for him – a million questions in general – but her gaze flickers to what he holds cradled against his chest, and then she’s fixated, because _that’s her brother_.

“Sakuya,” she whispers, her voice hoarse and throat dry. She can see the movement of his chest rising and falling as he breathes, unconscious against the chest of the unfamiliar mine, and she wants to start crying. She doesn’t think he even looks hurt at all.

“Ah, is that his name?” He asks, and reaches up with his one hand to push that unruly curl of hair out of her brother’s eyes. It springs back, of course – it always does. The man frowns, and while she’s tempted to tell him to get his hands off of her brother (he _is_ a stranger, after all), something in her doesn’t let her speak up. She feels like she can, for whatever reason, trust this man. “ _Sakuya._ I like it!”

A smile, then, that doesn’t leave her feeling very reassured. “Who are you?” she croaks out, and pushes herself up so she’s sitting.

And then, halfway up, reclining on her elbows, she freezes.

There’s blood _everywhere_. She swallows, because that couldn’t all be hers, from the stab wound she can’t even feel anymore – tracks the smears and trails to the inside of the apartment, where two familiar shapes lie still, slumped in positions that has the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

There’s no grief in her – but there’s horror, and she looks back to the man with new eyes, noting the unnatural red of his eyes, and how they seem to glow in the low light.

“ _Youkai_ ,” she whispers, because what else could he be? Features that were Japanese through and through but eyes of red and skin like unmarred porcelain, wearing clothes that belonged to an era long passed.

When she’d screamed out for help, it seemed that there _had_ been someone listening.

Real, genuine amusement flickers to life on the man’s face for a brief moment, and then he’s throwing his head back and laughing – she can only stare.

“ _Youkai_ ,” he repeats, and there’s the echo of laughter still in his voice. “Not quite.” His eyes seem to flash as he smiles at her. “I suppose you would call me a vampire.”

She blinks. “Eh?” she says. _What?_ She thinks.

But – as absolutely _crazy_ as it sounds, she isn’t sure she can flat out deny it, or disbelieve him. The red eyes, the flash of what she could only call fang in his smile – she swallows. “A vampire,” she says, and he nods encouragingly.

“I heard your screams,” he said. “I was curious, so I came to see what was happening.” His grin widened. “Luckily, what I found wasn’t boring.”

She stares, and he taps at Sakuya’s nose. “I caught this cutie midfall,” he says. “I do so hate wasted lives.” He looks up at her. “And then I came up here to investigate who was still making so much noise, and found someone just as interesting.”

She feels cold. “Interesting?” she whispers, and his smile transforms – caught somewhere between mocking and gentle.

“Surely you’ve noticed,” he says. “Your wound is gone, and you don’t hurt at all now.” A blink, and then he’s before her, his face inches from hers. She flinches back, but he makes no move to attack – simply places her brother in her arms. “You died,” he says.

It takes her a moment to process his words – once she has, she opens her mouth to argue them, only to realise…she can hear something. An even, rhythmic beat, and her mouth waters. She looks down to the source of warmth curled up in her arms – Sakuya – and can feel the heart that beats in his chest. Hear it; can see the pulse fluttering in his neck.

She’s hungry, she thinks, as automatic and instinctual a thought as if she was looking at a piece of cake, and she almost screams.

She stares back up at the man, helpless and confused. Her grip on her brother tightens, and she pleads silently for an answer.

He isn’t smiling now – no, his face is carefully blank. “I made you into my subclass,” he says, a bunch of words that mean approximately nothing to her. “Forgive me if I’ve transgressed, but I was under the impression that you wanted to live.”

She looks down, stares at her brother’s sleeping face. Tears have left red and swollen tracks down his cheeks, but he looks peaceful. And whatever kind of monster than man before her is, he’s the reason Sakuya is with her. The reason Sakuya’s breathing.

And for that, she owes him everything. Mad that he’s made her into some sort of vampire? Not at all. She’s alive, and Sakuya is alive.

She looks up, and hopes he can see those emotions in her gaze as they lock eyes.

There’s something almost fond in his expression as he looks back at her. “I am Tsubaki,” he says. “What is your name?”

She swallows. Her name isn’t something she likes – she’s always hated it, a poisoned ‘gift’ from parents that had always terrified her. The moment Sakuya was old enough to understand, he’d never call her anything but ‘sis.’

But – if she had died, if she had really and truly _died_ –

Well. This was sort of like a rebirth, wasn’t it? A second chance at life.

So why couldn’t she just choose her own name?

She takes a moment to consider, and then – “Haru,” she says out loud, and it’s not a lie, not really – in fact, for once it feels like the truth. “Haru – that’s my name.”

Tsubaki smiles.

And Haru feels hope.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~haru, for the season her brother was born in~~
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> This will probably become part of a series of oneshots - I have IDEAS for this AU.


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